Young Blood
by uncorazonquebrado
Summary: “Don’t make me kill you.” The words are offered smilingly but laced in steel. “You’ll ruin all the fun.” Chuck Bass/Damon Salvatore. Slash
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N** This is a crossover between GG and Vampire Diaries - Chuck/Damon_

_**Warnings:** Contains some language, violence, some dub-con (more like 'in denial', actually) and slash. I hate to bring out the clichés but: don't like, don't read._

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing_

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It's like a drug.

Like something was pushed into his bloodstream instead of sucked out of it. Something that's left him aching and itching and gasping for breath.

He needs more. Hates himself with a passion that almost trumps the overpowering need for even thinking about it.

Almost.

That's how he _knows_ that son of a bitch must have slipped him something, because he has never ached like this for anything, or anyone, before.

He's _Chuck Bass _for fucks sake.

He lets out a low hiss as he rubs his neck and accidentally touches the still tender wound. Does it again and this time lets the gush of air escape through gritted teeth as he shudders, caught off guard by the sudden tightness in his pants.

The face of his tormentor is there every time he closes his eyes; mocking him, laughing at him. The taste of him still on his tongue no matter how many drinks he downs and the rush - that excruciating, thrilling rush - still ghosts in his veins with every racing heart beat.

The third time he pokes at the gash on the side of his neck he can barely suppress the groan that rumbles in his throat. The sound drags him out of his own thoughts and reality dawns on him; he's in a fucking bar, seconds from slipping a hand down the front of his fucking pants.

What the _hell_ did that smirking bastard slip him?

Later on he barely remembers heading outside, vaguely recalls weaving through the crowd and breathing a sigh of relief as the cold night air filled his lungs.

But he'll remember with perfect clarity suddenly being slammed face first into the wall, both arms locked behind his back and alarm leaving place for a tidal wave of adrenaline and heat.

"Missed me?"

The words are spoken close to his ear and he shudders as a finger runs down his cheek and sets his skin on fire; scowls at the answering chuckle from his captivator.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Get your filthy hands off me." Chuck snarls, struggling in vain to free himself, but his objections are countered with a low moan as the hand stroking his cheek fists in his hair and tugs. Hard.

"Well, well. You really do get off on this, don't you?" The voice sounds both amused and surprised, teeth closing around his earlobe, almost hard enough to draw blood. "Begging for it like a slut. Why is that, princess? Daddy didn't love you enough?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, did I hit a nerve? You're not going to break down and cry, are you?"

Still the same taunting voice before lips close around his earlobe, soothing the marred skin and Chuck needs to get out. Away. Because this is wrong and it shouldn't feel good and he can't _want_ this.

"You wish," he manages to choke out, struggling to free himself and regain some ounce of self-respect.

The words have barely left his mouth before he is turned around abruptly and his head slams into the brick wall behind him.

Head spinning and with stars dancing before his eyes, Chuck barely registers that his wrists are freed, but sucks in a breath as his chin is gripped forcefully instead. His swimming vision clears, and he finds himself staring straight into the pair of grey eyes that's been haunting him for days. To his horror the muscles in his stomach tighten in anticipation.

"Don't make me kill you." The words are offered smilingly but laced in steel. It's not an idle threat and they both know it. "You'll ruin all the fun."

"Fuck you," he manages to choke out, biting his cheek so hard he almost tastes blood to keep from whining like some common whore as a toned leg is pushed between his thighs, pressing against the bulge in his pants.

"No," the low voice quips, a gush of cool breath against his ear, "Fuck _you_,"

He opens his mouth to speak, but the objection is lost in a bruising kiss that tastes slightly metallic and that he soon finds himself reciprocating, and with vigor. Sliding a hand into dark, short cropped hair.

Cool air hits heated skin as a hand comes up to pull away the expensive silk accessory tied around his neck, and Chuck's eyes fly open in shock in the same second a hand slips inside his expensive designer pants.

His startled groan echoes in the alleyway as one hand wraps firmly around his erection. Stroking him excruciatingly slowly and setting every nerve ending in his body on fire. He fleetingly remembers that he should be doing…something, to stop this. Fight. Kick and scream. But then the hand picks up pace and a twisty kind of stroke rips all sense of reason from his mind.

It doesn't take long after that.

The last thing he remembers - before his entire world comes crashing down around him in blinding, pleasurable heat and agonizing pain – is the whisper against his neck;

"I think I'm going to like this town."

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_Feedback would be greatly appreciated_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N** _

_Thanks to Robin for looking this over for me! Come join the dark side ;)_

_This chapter is all flashback to how it all began, the next one is on its way. I know that these chapters are really, really short, but I like it this way for now._

_**Warnings:**_ _see chapter one_

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing_

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"_Here you go, Mr. Bass." _

_The bartender placed the glass on top of the usual white napkin and he trailed a finger around the rim absentmindedly before picking the tumbler up and having a sip. He was a drink or two from comfortably numb and he definitely intended on crossing that line by a few steps before the night was over._

_Swallowing and savoring the burn in his throat, he paid little notice to the latest customer to walk up next to him at the bar._

"_I'll have whatever he's drinking,"_

_The request, and the laid-back tone of voice caught his attention, and he looked up from the glass to the man next to him. _

_Something happened then, something he has a problem defining but it felt like waking up or coming down from a high. Those grey eyes looking back at him caused something at the back of his mind to stir. Unfurl. _

_Suddenly parched, he reached for his glass and swallowed another mouthful, watching as the other guy downed his scotch in one go before turning to him._

"_I'm Damon. Salvatore."_

"_And I'm not interested" He replied, ignoring the little voice at the back of his head that told him he was lying, and walked back to his private booth. The feeling of having eyes on him followed him the whole way there._

.;:*:;.

_Two hours later he was well past the line between buzzed and drunk and nearly let out a growl of frustration as his gaze landed on the guy from the bar for the millionth fucking time. The stalker-ish tendencies he was showing was more than a little unsettling. When pale eyes looked up and locked with his, he was quick to look away. _

_If that wasn't his cue to leave, he didn't know what was. He got to his feet, pausing briefly as the room began to spin, and then made his way to the restroom. Once inside he caught a look of his own reflection in the mirror and froze, appalled. _

_He looked like hell. _

"_You know, this light really isn't flattering for anyone."_

_The words were spoken close to his ear, and caused him to jump. _

"_Do you often stalk people in public restrooms?" His reply was instant and sharp, but did little to settle his racing pulse. Was he having a heart attack? A seizure, perhaps? That would certainly explain a lot. _

"_Not really, but I know when to make an exception."_

_He barely kept from rolling his eyes. "Yes, because I'm just dying for a stalker dressed in cheap leather, with tacky accessories," he scoffed, letting his eyes travel leisurely over the guy in front of him and land on the ring on his middle finger. Like he'd said; tacky._

_Damon sucked in a breath in feigned offence and then chuckled. "_Dying_ for my company. Interesting."_

_This time he couldn't help the resigned eye roll, this guy was beyond cliché. "Now, if you'll excuse me, -" _

_He made it two steps before he realized that tacky-obnoxious-guy wasn't moving out of his way, and immediately froze. Tilting his head up slightly he looked straight into grey eyes dancing with barely concealed mirth. "Do you mind? There's somewhere I need to be"_

"_Not at all," Damon smirked, stepping in closer. _

_His body suddenly felt like an alien thing, sluggish and not properly attuned to his mind. He shuddered, a chill running down his spine, as tacky-guy…Damon…leaned in, invading his personal space to speak close to his ear. For a moment he could've sworn he felt lips brushing along his jaw line. Maybe he really did need a doctor._

"_But I think you'd prefer if I came with you."_

_The suggestive tone sent his mind reeling. He'd hooked up with guys before, but not like this. Those times had been on a dare or when high or out of pure boredom. This, whatever it was, wasn't like that and he knew it. The bastard was smiling at him, mocking him silently, a challenge clearly visible in his eyes. That, and something he recognized but had no name for. Something related to that…thing, at the back of his mind that he preferred not to dwell on._

"_My limo's parked out front."_

_

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_Feedback would be greatly appreciated_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N** I'm officially obsessed with these boys. _

_Thanks for the reviews guys, I'm so thrilled there are a few others out there enjoying this little experiment!_

_This is the second part of the flashback. Memories are in (brackets)_

_Thanks to Robin for the beta!_

_**Warnings:** see chapter one_

_

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_

_He woke up in a panic, sitting up straight and wincing as his muscles protested against the sudden movement. He ached all over. Frantically searching the room he could feel his heartbeat settle as he took in the familiar setting. His suite, his bed. Lifting a hand to pull it through his hair, he grimaced when moving his head sent tiny needles racing through the sore skin of his neck, and froze._

_Memories came rushing back, crashing over him like a tidal wave, and set his heart racing in his chest again. _

(…They're kissing but it's more like waging war. A battle of will fought with lips and tongue and teeth. The sound of ripping fabric and heavy breathing…)

_One look down to his right sent a fresh rush of adrenaline through his bloodstream. He might've been in his own bed but he wasn't alone. He got out of bed slowly, using all his energy not to make a sound. Stumbling through the room in nothing but his boxers he tripped on the threshold of the bathroom and nearly ended up in a heap on the floor. _

_What the fuck had that creep done to him? _

(…There are hands everywhere; touching, stroking…bruising. He's on fire. Can't think, can't breathe. Needing something…more…'Please'…)

_Technically, he remembered perfectly well what had happened last night. But in harsh daylight he really preferred to pretend he didn't._

(…There's a dull, vicious pain and it's too much and his heart is beating is too loud in his head. He's vaguely aware of lips on his skin and fingers digging into his hip. But then the ache is being chased away. Overwhelming, glorious friction is taking over, sending jolts of electricity up his spine...)

_The person looking back at him from the reflection in the mirror couldn't be him. There was no fucking way that pale, hollow-eyed idiot with a huge freaking flesh wound on his neck could be him. _

_No. Fucking. Way._

(…An explosion of blinding pleasure tears a cry from his lips, but there's pain too. So much pain. He can't tell where one feeling ends and the other begins. It hurts and he's drowning and is this what dying feels like?)

_Forcing himself to calm down, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Nose wrinkled in distaste, he splashed some water on his face before using a wet towel to wipe the blood of his skin. _

_Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. The gash on his neck wasn't the only one. Inhale. He was fucking covered in bruises and red welts. Exh-_

_Teeth marks._

_Fucking hell._

_Panic increasing once more, he turned on his heels and left the bathroom. He fully intended on getting hotel security on the phone right that instant, but stopped mid-step right outside the door. The bed was empty._

_He barely had time to notice the shape next to him before the silence was interrupted,_

"_Don't tell me you're a morning person, that's just not…normal."_

"_What the hell did you do to me, you freak?!" The attempted snarl didn't come out as he'd planned, but his panic quickly turned into fury at the sight of a smug grin. "Get the hell out of here, before I -" He never got a chance to finish the sentence before he was shoved into the wall._

"_You know, your morning after manners needs some work." _

_Held firmly in place by a hand on his throat, he could do little but glare furiously at his captivator. Part of his overcharged brain noticed the lack of clothing, but he shut that part up before the thought could go any further than that._

"_You know what I did." Damon continued, and Chuck's eyes narrowed at the smug tone of his voice. Chest against chest, thighs pressed against thighs and lips brushing against his cheek, "…and you liked it. Wanted it. Begged me for it. It was quite memorable actually."_

"_Fuck off." His voice wavered and he snapped his jaw shut, damning his traitorous body's reaction to the cool skin pressed against his._

_Damon's mouth tugged into a grin - head tilting to the side - and then leaned back in, "You still want it," he drawled, wetting the still raw gash with his tongue and chuckling at the gasp that followed._

_Chuck closed his eyes, as if the lack of sight would make reality go away and take all memories of last night with it. The reality where he was hard as a rock and clenching his fists to keep from reaching out. Another ragged sound made its way up his throat._

_Pale eyes fucking dancing with amusement met his own hooded ones. An arched eyebrow quirked as if to say 'see, I told you', but then Damon's expression turned serious; cold and unyielding. "You will not tell anyone about this." _

_There was no denying the commanding tone of Damon's voice and Chuck couldn't look away. Everything around them became blurry, disappeared. Every thought, every feeling. Nothing existed in that moment but Damon. "This isn't something you want anyone to know about."_

_Chuck might have repeated those words out loud, he really wasn't sure. When his mind cleared and the world returned he found himself alone again. Slowly he sank down to the floor, resting his head in his hands. Definitely not missing the feeling of that freak's hand around his neck and a strong, smooth chest pressed against his. _

_Definitely not._

_

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_

_Thoughts?!_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N** I figured it was time to let Damon have a say in things. _

_His POV is told from a second person narrative, just a short drabble-y chapter for now, with another one coming up soon._

_Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter, guys!_

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There are some serious benefits to being eternally young. If you were even the slightest bit religious - and you know, not considered the spawn of Satan - you might consider thanking God for being turned while you were still young and devastatingly handsome. Everyone wants you. If they don't, well let's just say you can be quite persuasive if necessary.

You'd be the first one to admit that you're easily bored; you suppose it's somewhat of a side effect to the whole undead thing. You don't do bored, and frankly you'd like to see anyone hang around for over a hundred years without making sure they find a few foolproof ways of entertaining themselves. Humans can be quite entertaining from time to time. Like when they're flat on their backs, with their mouths shut. Or screaming your name - that works too.

You like to change things up every once in a while. Humans tend to be a bit prickly about putting labels on things, and each other. You can't really be bothered. You were around during the Sixties; feminists with much too liberal views on the existence of body hair – not your thing.

Something about Chuck Bass caught your attention. Maybe it was because you were getting bored with your current company. Maybe it was the impressive amount of purple in his attire and the woman on his arm. Or maybe it was the way she was unceremoniously kicked out of his hotel room two hours later, once she'd filled her purpose - the human equivalent of ripping someone's head off.

So you might have made it part of your schedule to be found at the places where he'd be likely to show, watching him from a distance. You wouldn't call it stalking (again with the labels) It's more like…attentively watching.

You quickly learned that Chuck Bass is ruthless, manipulative and works hard on perfecting the art of drunken debauchery. Chuck Bass is a predator, like you.

You do like a challenge.

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_Thoughts?!_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N** Here's the second drabble-y chapter from Damon's POV. This one picks up right where chapter one ended._

_Thanks to Robin for the beta! _

_And thanks to those of you who reviewed on the last chapter, you guys rock!_

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His knees give out but you manage to catch him before he ends up on the ground, even though the caress of his blood rushing through your system is blurring your mind.

When you realize what you've just done you almost let go - it's not like you care if he falls or doesn't fall - but the two of you aren't quite finished and you're not supposed to eat things that have been on the ground.

He lets out a groan – a low, gravelly sound - still unconscious, and it's a vivid reminder of exactly how unfinished business is in your book.

Impatient, you begin to haul him in direction of the limo that's sure to be parked somewhere close by. Barely conscious, he does little to either help or object. You soon find the sleek vehicle parked outside the bar. The driver pales visibly as he spots the two of you, hurrying to open the door.

"Mr. Bass?"

"I told him not to challenge that tranny hooker to a tequila race," you shrug, but the driver doesn't bat an eyelid as you load his nearly unconscious boss into the backseat of the limo.

You're half way back to the Palace before he finally decides to join you again, but remains slumped against the door at an uncomfortable angle.

You can feel his eyes on you but pay him no attention, lazily twirling the ridiculously colorful silk accessory you've stripped him of between your fingers. It's stained with blood now; dark splotches have stained the delicate fabric beyond repair. Personally you think it looks better this way.

"Are you going to kill me?" He rasps, but there's surprisingly little fear in his words. He sounds more puzzled than terrified, and the question catches your attention.

"Eventually." You shrug, mostly to disguise your own surprise. You hadn't really thought about it until he brought it up. It's a rare thing for you to leave someone alive after sex. You don't _do_ seconds.

Up until now, apparently.

Oh well. You move quickly; lips quirking in a smirk as he lets out a startled breath - not prepared for the sudden lack of distance.

"But I'm not done with you yet."

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_Thoughts?!_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N** _

_Thanks to Robin for the beta! and thanks for the reviews guys!_

_**Warnings: **see chapter one_

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Chuck Bass is a womanizer, a playboy and a bastard. He gets drunk, gets high and gets laid without a care in the world besides what or who will provide his next high.

He rarely stops long enough for reality to catch up with him - that's the whole point of doing it all. Chuck Bass has made a life out of not thinking and no regrets and not caring about anything but the essentials (money, the pleasure money brings him and Nathaniel), and he intends to keep it that way.

No one cares, so why should he?

But – as reluctant he might be to admit it - living in the now can be fucking exhausting, and no regrets and no looking back is not always that easy. Playing the part of 'Chuck Bass' is the kind of role that would cause any award winning actor to end up in rehab.

Or in bed with a vampire.

Sometimes, the reality of what he's gotten himself into hits him like a sucker punch in the stomach and takes his breath away.

He is going to die.

Because no matter how much he likes to pretend differently; Chuck Bass is very much human, and quite literally sleeping with death itself.

Death in the shape of Damon Salvatore.

He thinks he should probably be a little more worried about the death factor than he is, but that's just another thought he prefers not to dwell on.

So in Chuck's own twisted logic, thinking about dying (Damon) and about not worrying about dying (Damon ripping his head off) leads to _not_ thinking, period, because that's what he prefers after all. Not thinking which somehow seems to equal Damon too.

Because with Damon around Chuck doesn't tend to do much thinking.

When he opens the door of 1812 on a Sunday morning to find himself staring straight into a familiar face, the immediate jolt of undiluted want through his veins momentarily floors him, but he recovers quickly. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, hello to you too," Damon smarms, leaning on one arm against the doorpost. "Long time no see, you look well, is that a new shirt?" He fires away the pleasantries one after the other, counting them down on slender fingers.

"Are you about done?"

"I've barely gotten started."

"Shouldn't you be locked up in a coffin somewhere?" Chuck retorts, looking over to the window where the bright sunlight is streaming in.

"Coffins are _so_ 1800's." Damon shrugs, walking past him and into the suite with a wink in his direction. "If you were harboring plans of sprinkling me with holy water, you're in for disappointment."

"I'll cancel my order from the Vatican," Chuck throws after him. It's like rope walking, talking back with the knowledge that crossing some invisible, ever-changing line will result in some serious bruising.

He watches Damon helping himself to a drink at the bar, downing it in one gulp before strolling back over to where he's still standing by the door, circling him like a wild animal circles his prey.

"And I don't sparkle like a fairy either." Damon says into his ear, and he suppresses a shiver.

"I think I would've noticed any kind of sparkling by now," Chuck retorts, turning his head to look him in the eye, "But I'm not that sure about the fairy part."

Damon's in front of him, backing him up against the closed door, in one smooth move. "You know," he muses, taking that extra step closer once Chuck's back hits the wood behind him, "I prefer you when you're not talking."

"That could be arranged." Chuck manages to get out, stomach muscles tightening in anticipation at the same time as he's struggling to silence the half-hearted objection ringing in his head. For the first time since their…whatever it is, started, this will be the first time anything happens without him being drunk or high or both. He really will have nothing to blame but himself. Looking at Damon - taking in the pleased, challenging look on his face - he can tell that he knows it too, and is waiting for him to notice. He opts for not thinking - as is the Chuck Bass way of procedure - and ignoring everything resembling a second thought he leans in and puts his lips against Damon's.

He expects the action to unleash the all-hell-breaks-loose kind of reaction such an act normally would, and is prepared to fight teeth and nails for domination, but nothing happens.

He gets nothing but silence and grey eyes dancing with amusement. So he does it again; putting more effort in it this time and sinking his teeth into a soft lower lip as he pulls back.

Still no reaction but a cocked eyebrow.

Frustrated with the lack of mind-numbing bruising taking place, he lets out a half-snarl; one hand coming up to fist in the dark hair of Damon's neck and the other clutching the soft, well-worn leather jacket as he deepens the kiss.

Come on.

When his efforts are finally rewarded with a response; a hand coming up to cradle his jaw as Damon strokes his tongue with his, the rush of adrenaline is instant. Confident, Chuck unhurriedly switches their positions and lets his hand travel up along a lean torso to push the hindering jacket off Damon's shoulders.

More.

Growing more and more impatient with each heartbeat, Chuck struggles to get the black t-shirt out of the way too, yanking at the offending material until Damon decides to help out and takes it off himself. Groaning into the kiss Chuck lets his hands travel over smooth, pale skin. It's a strange mix; the coolness of the skin underneath the palm of his hands, and the heat pooling in his belly.

He is dimly aware of the strange power shift between the two of them, but Damon's hands are still everywhere - stroking, teasing - and when he pulls at Chuck's bottom lip with his teeth Chuck's done thinking.

Hooking a finger through a belt loop of Damon's jeans and wrapping his free hand around his neck, he backs up in direction the bed; tugging the other man with him as he does. The lack of fight in Damon is surprising, but definitely not unwelcome, and pushing him down on the bed puts a smug smile on Chuck's face. Not liking the lack of contact he is quick to follow, settling himself astride Damon's thighs and locking the other's hands to his sides. The action is rewarded with a challenging smirk, but Chuck doesn't take the bait. He's too busy searching for something that will get a reaction out of the composed vampire; putting all his energy into kissing, touching, _nipping_.

He wants proof.

Proof that he's not the only one affected by it all; a sound of approval, a shudder, _anything_. It's not until he digs his fingers into Damon's hip, his thumb brushing against the skin just below the hipbone, that he gets his reward. It's nothing more than a muscle tightening in Damon's jaw, and grey eyes darkening slightly, but it's something.

Yes.

He wants more of that. It's like mastering fire.

Shifting position, and repressing a shudder as the movement makes him aware of just how badly he's aching for release, Chuck focuses his attention on unbuckling the belt in front of him and pulling down the zipper. Damon calmly lifts his hips, allowing him to pull the jeans down his legs, and kicks off his shoes in the process.

There's a dangerous glint in Damon's eyes then but Chuck doesn't notice. But when his hand slides over a flat stomach, fingers slipping underneath the waistband of Damon's boxers to brush over the sensitive spot he's just discovered, Damon suddenly springs into action.

Chuck barely has time to notice before he's on his back, arms locked at his sides. He tries to fight free, a frustrated sound rumbling in his throat, but one smooth roll of the hips from Damon is all it takes to turn it into a breathless groan. Giving up, he swallows hard as he looks up to find Damon staring down on him, his mouth quirking into a smug smile.

"Let's get this started, shall we?"

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_Feed my muse ?!_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N** Thank you so much for the reviews!_

_Thanks to Robin for the beta!_

_**Warnings:** yes ;) _

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It's been months since Chuck's been able to look himself in the mirror and not find any kind of bruise or nasty welt on his skin. Sometimes they're almost gone, all of them faded to barely visible shadows, but then he opens the door to 1812 to find Damon lounging on the couch and he knows that's about to change.

Damon and he don't have a relationship, Chuck shudders at the word.

They fuck.

Get off.

Hard and fast, with razor sharp flashes of pain blending together with the mind-numbing pleasure.

It is the ultimate high.

It's been a while, two weeks maybe, and the last finger shaped bruise on his arm is almost gone. He's aching for release, but Damon takes his time; placing deceivingly tender kisses all over his body, only to suddenly bite down hard enough to tear the skin.

The anticipation of not knowing what comes next - soft and feather-light or stinging bite - is making him slowly but surely lose his mind.

He's grinding his teeth together so hard his jaw feels like it's about to shatter into a million pieces, his fingers digging into the sheets, hard enough to almost rip the expensive Egyptian cotton, but he can not – _will not_ – give in.

Chuck Bass doesn't fucking beg.

Except that he has and Damon knows it, wants it.

He silently curses his own lack of self-control and is barely able to smother a moan as Damon licks a stripe up the inside of his thigh. "I don't have all day," He snaps, only to regret the action as Damon's teeth close around his hipbone and a breathy groan escapes his lips. "_Fuck_"

Damon laughs low in his throat, tilting his head up to look at him and Chuck knows, _fucking knows_, that catching him off guard like that was what Damon had been waiting for.

Bastard.

He soon forgets all about holding a grudge as Damon crawls across the distance of their bodies and kisses him; a devilish glint in his eyes as he does.

The taste of his own blood on his tongue is strangely erotic; hovering over the line between what's decent and what's not that he's been dancing around ever since his thing with Whore-gina back in seventh grade. One of his hands comes up to fold around the back of Damon's neck; keeping him in place as he slowly arches his back and grinds their erections together.

Now. No more waiting. Let's fuck my brains out.

Chuck's learned to read the signs by now; the barely there clues to what's going on underneath Damon's impervious façade, and knows he'll get his way soon.

He jumps at the chance; attacking Damon's mouth with renewed force and manages to flip them around and end up on top for a second before he's once again flat on his back. A slender hand wraps firmly around his throbbing erection, stroking him slowly, and he can almost feel his eyes roll back in his head. There are stars shooting up his spine, dancing behind his eyelids, but it's not quite enough to distract him from the pain as he finally gets his wish. There's always a sense of panic building slowly in his chest, before he remembers to breathe. Erratically at first but then calmer as his heartbeat settles and the sound of it lessens in his ears.

That's when he opens his eyes again, blinking against the spots swimming in his vision, and finds Damon staring at him with burning intensity. Damon's eyes are dark, almost too dark, and every chiseled line of his face is locked in concentration.

That short moment of eye contact is the only time he lets his mask of indifference slip, and Chuck would never admit it, but Damon's actually quite beautiful.

Then he starts moving, and Chuck doesn't think about anything anymore; the world becomes fuzzy around the edges as his breathing once more becomes shallow and his heart picks up pace. The fire builds slowly; everything growing more heated, rougher, with each passing second.

More.

Hands roaming, gripping, stroking. Flames licking his spine and a burst of fireworks through his bloodstream as Damon pushes _slowlonghard_ and hits just the right spot to force his head back in a soundless cry.

_Yes_.

He might have said that out loud after all, because Damon does it again and covers his lips with his - devouring his mouth - before turning his attention to the column of his throat.

That, along with the fingers curled around his length, is what pushes him over the edge. A brief moment of blissful release before the pain; shredding through the pleasure and intensifying it all at once. Then there's only darkness, soft and welcoming, and the distant memory of a groan breathed against his skin.

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_Thoughts?!_


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N **Another Damon drabble._

_Thanks to Robin for the beta!_

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Chuck Bass is a great fuck.

You wouldn't share that piece of information with anyone – least of all _him_ – under any lesser threat than being staked, but that doesn't make it any less true.

That's the reason why you find yourself becoming uncharacteristically attached, and keep coming back for more.

It has to be.

There's a low, throaty sound - part groan part whine - that he makes every time you cross the line between what feels good and pain. A sound that goes straight to you cock and echoes in your mind long after you've left his suite.

His fingernails are digging into your neck hard enough to leave a line of crescent shaped marks that will be gone the second he lets go. His eyes are dark, almost too dark, and glazed over with something that's becoming strangely addictive.

He's close, you can tell.

You angle your hips; hit just the right spot and smirk at the hissed 'yes' that escapes him. You do it again, and watch his eyes roll back in his head.

Yes. Just like that.

He comes first every time, you make sure of that, and as your fangs tear through the delicate skin of his throat, just where it meets the shoulder, he only comes harder.

The adrenaline flowing in his bloodstream, the taste of it and the feeling of him coming undone around you, rips your orgasm from you like a whiplash.

Those seconds are the most alive you've felt in a long time.

* * *

_Thoughts?!_


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N** Last chapter guys, only the epilogue left after this one. Thank you so much for reading/reviewing this little experiment._

_Thanks to Robin for the beta!_

_This is for Jess, LetMeIn1812, for leaving me such awesome reviews along the way. Thank you :)_

* * *

You watch the two of them from across the street. The older man's face is fixed in exasperation, his eyes hard and unyielding. It's near impossible to hear what they're saying and it's not the first time you curse the noisy streets of the city for ruining your chances of listening in on an interesting conversation. Chuck's talking back, but it doesn't look like the smooth, witty comebacks you're accustomed to. What you're seeing now looks like nothing but self-defense.

A truck drives by, honking loud enough to wake the dead. Yes, literally. Across the street the two men are still in heated conversation, and you're bored. It's sunny out and Central Park is sure to be filled with short skirts and lots of uncovered sun warmed skin. That ought to be more entertaining than this.

.;:*:;.

You return later that night; let yourself in simply because you can and find the room dark, silent. He's on the bed, eyes immediately glued to you but barely able to focus. There's a strange smell in the air, something rancid, chemical, and it takes you a second to identify what it is. Long enough for him to speak first.

"Look what the cat dragged in." His voice is hoarse; if it's from lack of use or the pills you're not sure. But the sluggish movements as he gets off the bed are definitely a result of the latter.

"Ouch," You suck in a breath in mock offense, not giving him a second look as you walk over to the coffee table and drain the content of the tumbler there in one gulp. "Figured I could go for a Happy Meal," you say, trying to shake the feeling that something's wrong, "that's you, by the way. A toy…and a meal."

When you turn around he's right in front of you; eyes glassy and lip curled in a sneer. "Aw, it makes jokes."

"_It_ could kill you in a second, you know."

He shrugs, "I'm not saying this obsession you have with me isn't…cute, but I'm not really in the mood for admiring fans."

An involuntary snarl rips out of your throat, and the world grows hazy around the edges as you shift. Enough of this. Enough of him and this uncharacteristic fixation of yours. One hand closes around his jaw to hold him in place.

It's like flipping a light switch, but instead of apologizing or begging or doing anything you might have expected, he does the opposite. He goes absolutely still; the fire in his eyes dying as he tilts his head, downright _offering_ you his neck.

"Maybe you should."

It's barely a whisper, but it echoes in the room. Bouncing off the walls and amplifying before crashing right back into you. It hits you somewhere raw inside your chest and _no_.

This is not the way things are supposed to be.

Chuck Bass doesn't back down without a fight.

He's still waiting, empty eyes staring blankly out into the dark room, and the grip you have around his jaw has got to hurt but he shows no sign of feeling it.

He looks dead already and you have a feeling you'll remember that image for too long. It's always for too long.

You don't want him dead.

Suddenly you're furious; you want to shake him like a rattle and force him to snap out of whatever state it is he's in, but on the other hand your hands are itching for you to let go and get out of there.

"Maybe," you finally agree with an indifference so fake it makes your chest hurt, almost pushing him away as you let go. "Only right now you'd taste like cough syrup, and I'm more of an herbal kind of guy."

He lets out a laugh; a short, raspy sound that sounds like he's choking on it. "Disappointed? That seems to be the theme of the day."

You watch him pour more scotch into the empty tumbler and drain most of it in one go. When he looks up the vacant look in his eyes is almost gone but there's enough of it left to make your skin crawl. "Then why are you still here?" He asks, moving closer to where you're standing in slow steps. "If the meal," he muses, head tilting to the side, "has been ruled out, then I guess you're here to play."

He looks all wrong and you want to hurt him, fuck him, _fix_ him.

But you can't, don't know how to and shouldn't be considering it, so instead you let him kiss you when he makes the move. That breaks you out of your stupor because there's nothing broken or lifeless about that kiss. It's desperate, tongues dancing together and hands reaching for more, faster, now. Stepping closer, he forces you back towards the bed. Soon he's undressing both of you in frenzied, desperate moves, never breaking the kiss, even though you're both stumbling and getting caught in tangled pieces of clothing. You barely notice, it's not until the hand that's working on your belt moves down to cup you through your jeans that you jolt; groaning into his mouth and pushing into the touch. The reaction seems to startle him and he breaks off the kiss. His eyes are dark as they lock with yours, the pupils dilated to the point where the iris is barely visible. It feels like he can see right through you.

When he moves the next time it's slow and unhurried. His lips find yours again, one hand sliding around your neck as the other one lies flat against your chest, pushing you down onto the bed. Your arm feels heavy as you lift it to pull him with you, as if you're moving under water. He comes willingly, sits astride your legs before moving down; kissing and licking his way down your chest. You're hard, aching for more, and when he stops; breath ghosting over your cock, your entire being is focused on his breath against your skin. Your hips move on their own volition, arching towards him. When his hand curls around your hip, thumb brushing over _that_ spot on your hipbone, as the other wraps firmly around your throbbing erection, there's no stopping the sound that escapes you. "Fu-"

The rest disappears in a strangled groan as you're engulfed in a wet, hot mouth.

You're on fire; flames are dancing up and down your spine, burning all the way into your core. You lose yourself in it - a little more lost with every stroke, every lick and every breathless groan ripped from your throat. You come hard, the roar of fire echoing in your ears and sharp, blinding pain behind your eyelids.

You're ashes and dust.

He's kissing his way up your torso as you open your eyes; your jaw working as you gulp down air you don't need. It's not until he licks a stripe up your chin that you realize you've shifted and cut your lip. The kiss that follows is unexpected; slow and messy.

Filthy. Hot. Alive. Perfect.

You should say something, _anything_, but your voice is gone the second your eyes meet his and find a shadow of their usual spark there. He looks down at you through hooded eyes, lips tugging into a lazy smirk before kissing you again and then burying his face against your neck. He's still lying close to on top of you and his erection is pressing against your hip but he doesn't seem to care. He's passed out within seconds; before the sense of paralysis has even begun to leave your system.

You shouldn't be here. This is all wrong.

You shouldn't be there but you can't leave either. The beating of his heart echoes in your chest; like a fake reflection of life pushing you further down into the mattress with each slow, steady beat.

.;:*:;.

Soft, morning sun is filtering through the curtains when he stirs, rolling onto his back with one hand still resting on your chest. The echo of his heartbeat disappears with him.

You're ashes and dust.

You don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere.

You don't _care_.

No one cares.

You're a monster.

You need to remember that.


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N** I'm sorry this took so long. This fic will be moving to the crossover section in a few days._

_Thanks to Robin for the beta._

* * *

Chuck wakes up late, face buried deep in the pillows to hide his eyes from the sunlight, noticing the pounding inside his skull first, and the lack of company second. Confused he lifts his head just enough to look around the suite, squinting against the harsh light as he searches for signs of Damon. That's when he notices the lack of bloodstains on the sheets or lightly throbbing welts on his skin.

He's just finished showering and getting dressed when the sound of the door being unlocked echoes in the suite. He freezes mid-step, for a second thinking it's Damon and feeling his heartbeat momentarily falter in something he can't quite put a word on, but when the door swings open to reveal Nate standing there Chuck doesn't let it show.

Nate's all 'I-called-you-five-times-yesterday-man-what-the-hell' and he ends up on the couch (his couch) with a scowl on his face that lasts all but five seconds because his Nathaniel is a lot of things but not the one to hold a grudge. They order room service, enough food to sustain at least five people, as they start up the first round of Halo. The first joint is lit as soon as Nate's out of nachos, and it's not long before the game is forgotten in favor of slumping back against the pillows on opposite ends of the couch, smoking and talking well into the afternoon. It's been a long time since it was just the two of them Chuck realizes, as he sneaks the joint out of Nate's hand, smirking at the lazily offended "_Dude_" from his best friend. And if one of the reasons why that is, is still at the back of his mind two joints later, he chooses to ignore that fact all together.

.;:*:;.

Chuck doesn't know it yet, but a few months later he'll be standing in the middle of a club and watch his best friend's (ex)girlfriend take her dress off onstage. Her dance will be far from the seductive moves of the experienced dancers, but his throat will dry up and his heartbeat race nonetheless because Blair's all dangerous curves and feral smirk and he'll find himself drawn to her, to the new version of her that he's never seen before.

The kiss later on in the limo will be unexpected, at least from his point of view because she's always been off limits (_Nate'sgirilNate'sgirlNate'sgirl_) and when he asks her if she's sure he won't be asking her as much as he'll be asking himself because he can tell that he's playing a dangerous game. Chuck's always been the predator but right then he won't be so sure if he's the hunter or the prey; he feels too exposed, too unsure of what to do with the trust she's showing in him. But she'll kiss him again and it will chase away all doubts or second thoughts. He'll ease inside of her, slowly and carefully, focusing on her nails digging into his shoulder to keep from coming right then as if he was the inexperienced virgin and not her. Their eyes will meet, and he'll know he's a lost cause but will refuse to believe it at first. It won't be until she literally _purrs_ in his ear as he scrapes his teeth over the pulse point on her neck, sending jolts of electricity down his spine and shoving him off the edge. That's when he'll know, because Chuck might have thought himself a monster but with Blair he will finally want to be something more than that, feel like he might dare to try and be something other than the beast.

He's always liked the dangerous games the best.

.;:*:;.

The End

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_Thanks for reading_

_Review?!_


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